


Flowers and Thorns

by LilianMarsh



Series: Writing Prompts and Short Stories [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Death, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Murder, Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-26
Updated: 2019-03-26
Packaged: 2019-12-07 21:21:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18240329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilianMarsh/pseuds/LilianMarsh





	Flowers and Thorns

     Dirt under the nails is the hardest to remove.

     Mrs. Miles was always well put together. Her dress was pressed, her hair curled, and her make-up blended flawlessly; only by looking at her nails would you know that she spent the day sweating and toiling in her garden. Gardening was Mrs. Miles’ greatest joy: it was how she met her husband, after all. Everyone in town could still remember the young woman pruning her rose bushes, chatting with the handsome bachelor across her fence. Mrs. Miles was so enamored that she never noticed when he stepped on her petunias. Once they were married, people saw less of Mrs. Miles. She would tend to the garden at odd times and only left her home to attend church or a social gathering with her husband. When in town, she was always quiet, her long ruffled sleeves adorning her like flower petals. When the townspeople tried to speak to her Mr. Miles would always interject: “You’ll have to pardon my wife. She is as delicate as a rose and as shy as a moonflower.”

     It was a warm July morning, when the painted ladies were sweeping through the countryside, that Mrs. Miles spoke to the mailman. As he dug through the mail sack, a small crash and the slamming of a screen door caught his attention. The mailman looked up to see Mrs. Miles walking over to a bed of begonias.

     “Good morning, Mrs. Miles!”

     She flinched, turning quickly to face the mailman, “Good morning.”

     “Long time no see, how have you been?” The mailman smiled, holding out the mail.

     Hesitantly, she reached out and grabbed it, “I’m alright.” 

     “Are you sure?” He motioned to a purple bruise that wrapped around her forearm like devil’s ivy.

     She backed up, waving dismissively, “Just a fall. Stephanotises bruise so easy.” Then with a quick goodbye she vanished into the house.

     Mrs. Miles did not go to church that week, or the next. As time passed, the grass at the Miles’ home browned and daffodils sagged along the picket fence. Then, one morning, Mrs. Miles was outside in the dew-touched garden like a bud blossoming after a cold winter. Sprinklers watered the plants still clinging to life as she pulled weeds and trimmed away the dead. With tender care, the garden once again became vibrant. No one ever saw Mr. Miles after that day. It was a cool September morning when the mailman saw Mrs. Miles again. Her dress was pressed, her hair curled, and her make-up blended flawlessly; only by seeing the blue and red lights in front of the garden would you know that a façade had been shattered.

     Blood under the nails is the hardest to remove. 


End file.
